


are you afraid (not with you)

by sweetlyinfinite



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluffish, M/M, so sort of fluff but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:12:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetlyinfinite/pseuds/sweetlyinfinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry tilts his head full of unanswerable things and smiles a very small, curious twitch of his pink, pink lips. “Why are you afraid, Lou?”</p><p>This time Louis shrugs and answers right away because he knows. “Well love, if we weren’t afraid of dying, what would be the point of living?”</p><p>(Or, rather, in which Harry asks Louis if he’s afraid of dying and Louis says he is and Harry says he isn't.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	are you afraid (not with you)

**Author's Note:**

> For my older sister who inspired this (sort of).

“Hey, Lou?” Harry asks, glancing over his shoulder to catch a sweet, short glimpse of fluffy, mussed auburn hair and a tank-top that’s taut against a pair of lovely hips and loose against a flawlessly toned and chiselled set of pecks that belong to the boy he lives for as he flutters past. 

“Yes, darling?” the voice calls back from where it’s owner is now rummaging through a large pantry full of spices and sauces and sweets and sugars and salts and—“Aha! Found you.”

Louis emerges from their pantry and into the kitchen with a triumphant grin on his face, setting the pack of biscuits he’s taken onto the table and going to make himself a coffee to dunk them in. As soon as he’s set the kettle to boil, he remembers Harry asking him about something, so he spins around and leans against the counter, running a hand through his hair as he questions, “What was it you wanted, Harry?”

The younger boy who’s seated at the mahogany kitchen table and has been for a while places the porcelain cup of tea he’s been nursing next to the sugary biscuits. “Lou, are you afraid of dying?”

Louis frowns a little at this, but he isn’t too surprised because long ago he’d learnt not to be startled by Harry as the young boy is full of questions and wonderings and always ponders things Louis never gives a second thought to. A lot of the time Harry over-thinks because he desperately needs answers and doesn’t wish to ask, but he doesn’t over-analyse (never over-analyses) because there’s a possibility he may find something that’s not there, never will be and never has been, and to believe such a thing would be a small bit insane. Louis knows not to reply to a question like this with a silly answer because Harry’s 100% serious and would probably not talk to Louis for a week if he says something stupid.

So Louis thinks for a bit before he announces, “Yeah, love. I am.”

Harry tilts his head full of unanswerable things and smiles a very small, curious twitch of his pink, pink lips. “Why are you afraid, Lou?”

This time Louis shrugs and answers right away because he knows. “Well love, if we weren’t afraid of dying, what would be the point of living?”

And to that Harry doesn’t have a reply. The kettle decides to make a sort of squealing sound, shattering the soft silence that has ensued, and as Louis pours the water that’s steaming (and makes him think that must be what somebody’s soul looked like when they’ve been lying forever about something they shouldn’t have been and they finally tell the truth) into his mug a pair of long and warm arms encircles his waist and all Louis can feel is home. 

“Is that sort of why you have your tattoos, Lou? Because if you were to not have memories staining your skin you’d be wondering why your skin was so clear and empty and what was the point of it all?” Harry murmurs quietly to the quote of black ink on Louis’ collarbone and admires the other tattoos littering both his arms and what is visible of his chest, most of them black and meaningful and planned out as carefully as one would handle fine china of the Queen’s.

Louis wonders for a moment how Harry reached that conclusion but then he remembers that Harry is Harry and the answer isn’t all that hard to find. “Yeah,” he sighs and it’s happy, “that’s the gist of it.”

“All right, Lou. Why don’t you have your biscuits and then we can go shopping and I can force you into one of my sweaters because it’s bloody freezing outside and you look absolutely lovely and tiny and adorable in my clothes.”

Louis’ laugh echoes through their empty house long after they’ve eaten properly and left, the older but shorter boy being swallowed by a too big grey jumper with brown leather elbow pads that were just shy of where they should be, and the younger but taller boy who asks if they can hold hands in the shopping centre because as intelligent as he is, he still becomes jealous of the lad behind the counter who smiles at his boyfriend a little too much. Louis just reaches for his slender and soft fingers, turning to the side just enough to press his lips into Harry’s, earning him a smile that has the potential to light up the world for a week.

 

When they get home they have dinner (an odd mix of pizza and Chinese and Indian and a bit of Thai, all warmed up leftovers that Harry didn’t want to throw away and that Louis thinks are better as leftovers and both decide are delicious either way) and watch a movie that’s stupid and clichéd but makes Harry laugh and that’s all that matters, really. Louis sighs and lets his head fall into Harry’s lap softly and Harry drags his hands softly through Louis’ hair, basically petting him and Louis wants to purr. He doesn’t and it’s comfortable so his eyes close and he feels Harry’s heartbeat and the vibrations of his body as he giggles.

Louis feels warm though his feet and arms are cold. He digs his feet under the sofa cushion and his toes touch a pair of sunglasses Harry’s been missing and he sits up for a moment to drag a jumper on over his shirt, though the thin sweater does nothing. He manages to murmur, “Ray-Bans, love,” as he lies back down.

Harry doesn’t notice, but he reaches down to kiss Louis’ forehead, mainly because Louis is entirely too soft.

It’s late by the time Harry decides to move them. The movie ended a while ago but he’d sat quietly in the dark touching Louis and wondering. Harry carries Louis bridal style to their bedroom and slips him under the cold covers after taking off his pants and leaving him in the jumper. It isn't cold for long because then Harry’s sliding in after him with no clothes on and wrapping an arm under the sweater to reach Louis’ stomach with his heated skin radiating through the cloth to Louis’ back. Harry knows he isn't asleep due to Louis pushing his legs back to entwine with his own and the sigh Louis breathes when the warmth of his legs transfer. Harry thanks his body for being so hot. (He doesn’t giggle at the pun because he doesn’t want to explain to a sleepy Louis. Sleepy Louis doesn't understand much.)

Louis’ finally fully warm and fuzzy and in love and he’s on the verge of drifting away and he realises he wants to know something. “Are you afraid?” 

Harry kisses the back of his neck and when he moves his mouth away it should be cold there but it isn't because he’s still breathing. “Not with you,” is the only reply Harry feels is accurate and Louis nods because that’s what he meant to say, what he’s always wanting to say but doubting himself every time he goes to. 

“Okay,” Louis says instead of anything else and then he’s just breathing.

Harry doesn’t hear because he’s dreaming of Louis already with a future full of everything. 

Louis decides, just as his breaths become even and his mind stops moving, that he loves Harry so much he’d do anything and that doesn’t scare him because Harry’s hand is on his and Harry isn't afraid either.


End file.
